Functionally ReTodded

DISCLAIMER - Details of the songs and their specific order may be fuzzy based on the number of different set-lists I read before the show and the notes I made during the show and the beer I had there as well).

The FRT you know and love likes rock n’ roll.  Hard rock, acid rock, metal, country rock, indie rock, hair band rock, classic rock, album oriented rock, etc.  Throw on some Tesla and give me a cold beer and pool to hang out by and I’m fine.

The FRT you know is also proud that what you see is what you get.  I don’t put on a fake face for certain folks and a different one for others.  I’ve come to find that that’s both a blessing and a curse in my life, but it’s who I am.

Last night however, I met a new FRT.  It was a 40 year old FRT sitting at the Gwinnett Arena holding up his blackberry after calling his wife and singing Sweet Caroline at the top of his lungs.

If you’d have asked me a week ago if I’d even go see Neil Diamond, I’d have said no.  Or, as my neighbor Doug replied in an email when I invited him as well:  "NO!"

Here’s how the evening went.  I made some brief notes in my Blackberry during the event and took some pictures which I’ve posted at Facebook (and will throw on Flickr tonight).  My notes are tough to follow though as I didn’t know the actual names of some of the songs, and I was alternating between getting told by the usher to put away my Blackberry and being told to sit down and be quiet by the people behind us. Apparently their generation didn’t think it was polite to stand at concerts.  Or sing.  Or cheer.  Or clap.  Or stay awake.  And I’m assuming the backlight from my Blackberry must have had an negative affect on their glaucoma.

Cooley picked me up at 6pm at my house which I really appreciated, since it meant I didn’t have to drive.  We went to his store and picked up his buddy Mike,  a Tennessee fan but, besides that, a decent enough guy.

We got to the Loafing Lepruchan (a bar very close to the arena) only to find it over-filled with folks older than my parents.  The same went for the Frontera and the Chin Chin 7 nearby.  We decided to hit California Dreamings (stupid s on the end of the name) and it too was packed with couples in their mid to late 60’s.  I hadn’t seen that much gray hair since Bob Barker of TPIR gave up on the grecian formula.

I ordered two beers for me and Mike while Andy and Brad put in for a table.  They chastised me for not getting them beers.  Before we got a waitress or bartender, our table was ready.  It was a little after 7pm and I knew that with an 8pm show time on the ticket, Andy "Showtunes" Cooley was gonna start getting antsy.

My beer was gone and my Visa was in my hand, and I wanted to pay so I could sit down.  I was there, leaning on the bar, credit card raised above my head and between my fingers for fifteen minutes.  I was seconds from just grabbing the receipt, tearing it up and going to our table when the bar person said "do you wanna pay?"  Perfect.

Then it was two laps of the restaurant before I found them.  They had ordered four beers.  They had also split the fourth into each of their beers so I had nothing.  In their defense they said "But we ordered nachos.  And ribs."

Thanks.

We finally got to pay after Brad ate all the god damned ribs while i ate french fries and a few nachos (bbq chicken nachos kick ass) and we left at 7:56pm with Andy FREAKING THE FUCK OUT because the show was starting at 8pm.  (Of course it wasn’t starting at 8pm.  Neil’s a professional and knows how to build drama and suspense).

We got parked pointing the wrong way but at least we were on the curb and not far from the building.  We made our way upstairs around 8:15pm with no Neil in sight.  Awesome.

Brad and I headed to the bar so I could get a beer and something for him.  I told him I was buying, so he got a double grey goose and tonic.  Thanks for the 14 dollar drink Brad.  LOL

We went back to our seats only to see the two disappointed puppies (Andy and Mike) since I hadn’t bought them beers. I went back and bought them each one and another for myself.  High five.

As our seats were halfway back on stage left in the club level, it’s here that I noticed all the bald heads and blue hairs.  Seriously.  I don’t even know how these people were still awake.  The dude to my left was, in my estimation, 114 years old.  I couldn’t figure out how half the people got into their seats, let alone to them.

About this time a row full of early fifty something wide ass women started doing some sort of concert row line dance to our left.  blech.

I also noticed that, throughout the show, the couple one row up and to the right of us hadn’t moved. Had. Not. Moved.  As in, not even a foot tap, head bob, snap, nothing.  I simply do not understand folks that don’t get moved enough to sing along or, well, move.

(I heard later that my co-workers who were sitting below us had been admonished by the row behind them to sit down and be quiet as they were "TRYING to watch the concert."  Whatever you old fuckers.  Stay home and listen to Neil from your phonograph records and talk about the depression or something).

He started with Holly Holy, Beautiful Noise, then hit Love On The Rocks…

And that’s when an usher said "My God!  How did they get you people to buy these seats?"  Nice work gramps.  Way to be an ambassador for the building and company that employ you.

Then it was on to Cherry Cherry and, at this point, I typed in my memo pad "God dammit.  I think I like Neil Diamond."

Next up:  Brooklyn Roads (complete with a slideshow of Neil’s life as a young child and young adult in Brooklyn, NY), pause to wipe away an imaginary tear, then he broke into Forever in Blue Jeans.

Opening riffs for the song that the city of Boston loves, (ESPECIALLY before the bottom of the 8th inning at Fenway Pahhk), and the next thing you know, Mike, Andy and myself are dialing our wives, holding the phones up and all singing at the top of our lungs.  I imagined at that moment that that’s what it must feel like to come out of the closet and not be ashamed of who you are anymore.

WE’RE HERE!!  WE’RE NOT QUEER!! BUT WE’RE NEIL DIAMOND FANS!!

Deep breaths people.  Time to slow it down.  You don’t bring me flowers starts, and Andy says "After this, if he says something about new stuff, let’s hit the beer stand," which is exactly what happened.  Neil gave a hippy-ish "You may not know these next few songs, but you just sit there and let them flow over you.  I’ll do the work."

That’s when we hit the "Cool Stuff" stand.  I bought a coffee cup and a t-shirt and then, instead of picking up a $7 16-ounce beer, I got an $8 24-ounce beer.  High five!

Back to the seats in time for the start of Cracklin’ Rosie for the finale.

But not so fast.  I’d been doing research, and he’s usually done an encore with two or three songs, including Coming to America and Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show.  Many old and feeble people left.  This old and feeble person did not.

He tore into Coming to America and then finished with the aforementioned rother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show.  That was it.  Exit.  Stage rear.

Out to the car, realized that there was no way we were going anywhere, so it was off to the Loafing Leprechaun for beers and to split the fish and chips platter.  Paid the check about an hour or so later, dropped Mike off at his car and went home.

If you’d have asked me Friday if I was a Neil Diamond fan, I’d have said no.  If you’d have asked me Sunday after I did some sniffing around on iTunes, I’d have said "maybe a little."

Ask me today?  I say hell yeah!  I still won’t pay 80 bucks for a concert ticket, but I’d go see him for free again.  I’d just hit kroger for a 12 of Bud Select and a box of fried chicken instead.